


i like our thoughts

by GStK



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Post-What Makes the Sky Blue III: 000 (Granblue Fantasy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: wind across you but never within you.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	i like our thoughts

You were in my dream.

Orange traveled longform across the sky. Photosynthesis robbed the atmosphere of its carbon dioxide and discarded oxygen. You walked down palm fronds laid out like a staircase leading you to the shore. The ocean was frothy and bubbled with the fifty complaints of the plural nereid.

“Enjoying the waves?” you had asked me. I had not known how to answer. You looked down at my feet. “You should take off your sandals, my lord.”

You crouched on one knee and unwound the leather bindings of my footwear. I watched you. You were not unlike a human unblanketing the baby that had floated down the river in a basket.

The waves lashed at you. It was only for a moment: a long moment. I felt my neurotransmitters racing through the maze of my mind, banging at the door of every synapse, begging to be let in before the judgement came.

You completed your task and I was without my shoes. I felt the sand beneath my feet. When the tide rushed in, it blanketed the flesh of my soles, and the space in between each phalangeal joint. I supposed it must have been very cold. I must confess, I have never felt the water touch me before, so my dream did only what it could. It filled in.

I must confess: I have never seen you smile joyfully. My dream filled in that, too.

You brushed your thumbs against my cheeks and swept away the chemicals in my mind. I was a blank. You were a bright star to my moors, with an apparent magnitude of -25 and a stunning nucleosynthetic yield. You brought ablutions to my doubts.

Or was it the other way around? You stroked my face and said, wearily, “Please don’t cry.” You wore the soft mask of joy, still, though I recognised the long exhaustion in your voice.

“I am sorry,” I said, because I could say no more. You cannot be baptised twice. You cannot be twice forgiven. The sinner cries his forlorn peals and the Almighty shuts her doors on the piteous wails of the accretion disk.

You shook your head. You took my gestalt with you when you turned your gaze to the sky. “I wish,” you said, “I could have known how bad I was for you instead of simply thinking it.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. I looked at the sky too. It was burgeoning with crimson and violet.

You said, “I never got to say goodbye.”

The dream shattered. My brain stopped extrapolating. Ah, yes. I was dead. 

My soul was quick to remind me that we had said goodbye. You had worn your toughest armour so I wouldn’t see you in your tears. I felt them, even as I had said I would wait for you, as if you had slicked my palms with your sobs. What a grace that would have been.

As yet, I never even felt when you took me into your hands. I lost that moment.

“What is this?”

“What do you think this is?” you returned. I supposed that was fair, as you were only the Sandalphon of my dreams.

I found that thought grounding. More than anything, I believed that helped coax the words out of me. I could not ever speak to you, but I could speak to a part of you, an imagined you. It is my strength made weakness.

“I have always considered,” I told you in my slow, careful voice, “an idea the skydwellers keep. I have heard it repeated through centuries. They speak of seeing the same sky, or dreaming the same dream.”

“Do you suppose,” the dream-you had gathered, “that I am dreaming you, as you dream me?” Your voice had the hint of a laugh in it.

“I do not find the concept inconceivable.” Lucilius had dismissed my more romantic notions. You, however -- you, whose hair I dyed with the earth and eyes I stained with creatures’ blood -- you could understand. “When I dallied--”

“You? Dally?”

You laughed at me. I enjoyed the sound of it.

“When I dallied,” I continued, “I considered the concept. How are birds born knowing how to fly? They have no creator to impress the instructions into their cores. How do skydwellers know to weep at the sight of their lovers on the day of their wedding? That, too, I wondered.”

“This has to do with dreams?” you asked. I always loved the thought of you dismissing me with your sarcasm. I lusted for the potential of it.

“The purpose of sleep goes largely misunderstood,” I said. “All manner of skydwellers require it. It is a healing mechanism for the cells. But once I thought the strangest thing.

“That two particles are entangled until they are observed. A skydweller in his sleep goes unobserved. Until they are recorded, the particles are paired. What if, then, instincts are passed from parent to child through their dreams? And hope for the day of marriage is shared between lovers, every night until?”

You were quiet for a long time. I do not think I made much sense. You did your best to try and understand me. That was enough. “Primal beasts don’t require sleep.”

I nodded. Then I said, “But you sleep. And now, I do, too.” I took your hand and I could have sworn I felt it.

You studied me, chest rising and falling. “And?”

“Quantum entanglement happens faster than the speed of light, but the information shared is so sparse. I can only hope to transmit to you, one electron at a time, the love I feel for you.”

You jerked back with a sudden look of surprise. I was scared that I had crossed you. You were simply alarmed. “Lucifer--” you began.

“Lucifer,” you say again, and we arrive to the present moment. I feel the warmth of your five fingers in mine. Then, we are observed -- by the Speaker; by the Creator; by a skydweller entering your place of sleep -- how, I am not sure. The result is the same. You are gone.

My shoes are still unbuckled and the wash laps over me piteously. I feel the absence of exactly one bit of information when I take stock of my body composition.

The ocean, extrapolated from my readings and my yearnings, delivers waves from me. Each wave is a bit, or a light turning on and off. The tide is the inhale. The exhale is the love.

I imagine I am that wave, and I am, bit by bit, sending myself to you.


End file.
